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University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

From  the  Bequest 

of 

Dorothy  K.  Thomas 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/fiftyrubaiyatofoOOomarrich 


FIFTY 

R     U     B     A     I     Y     A     T 

O  F 

OMAR     KHAYYAM 

PARAPHRASED  FROM  UTERAL  TRANSLATIONS  BY 

RICHARD     LcGALLIENNE 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  PRESS 
At  The  Sign  of  The  Creen  Pine  Tree 
WAUSAU  WISCONSIN 


Two  hundred  copies  printed  for  private  circulation 
only  for  James  Carleton  Young  and  liis  friends  of 
irlucli  tliis  is  number 


•  * )  ^  " 


Copyrighted  1901  by   Richard    Le  Gallienive. 


TATTERED  robe,  and  face  with 

loving  pale. 
Pass  me  not  by :  I  am  the  Nightingale 
That  dares  to  sing  of  Riot  and  the  Rose; 
And,  Brother,  I  would  give  thee  hand  and  hail. 


^UT,  sinner,  there's  one  thing  I  want  to 
hear: 

O  tell  me — is  your  sinning  quite  sincere  ? 
You  would  not  leave  it  even  though  you 
could  1 
Say  that  you  would  not,  O  my  brother  dear. 

jEMEMBER — all   the   pious   who  cry 
shame. 
With  holy  horror,  on  your  tattered  fame. 

Watch  only  for  the  opportunity 
Of  turned  backs  and  the  dark  to  do  the  same. 


Jet  us  at  least  who  think  the  Rose  is 
best 
Not,  paltry,  lie  about  it,  like  the  rest; 

But  lift  our  glasses  frankly  in  the  sun. 
And  take  our  love  as  frankly  to  our  breast. 


s 


HIS  is  the  creed  of  Omar  :  I  believe 
In  Wine  and  Roses,  also  I  believe 
In  Woman — (what  a  foolish  thing  to  do  !) 
And  in  the  God  that  made  them  I  believe. 


n 


^^M  DEARER  than  the  soul  that  gives  me 


^^3^  breath. 

Dearer  than  life,  as  the  old  proverb  saith, — 

Nay,  that  is  but  a  sorry  compliment : 
For  thou,  my  love,  art  dearer  even  than  death. 


days  are  filled  with  wonder  and  witK 
wine, — 

Wine   helps  the   wonder,    wonder    helps  the 
wine — 
But  in  the  night  my  bosom  fills  with  tears. 
Tears,  tears,  for  one  who  never  can  be  mine. 

TN  sad  eyes  must  sparkle  in  the  sun. 
But,  when  the  miracle  of  day  is  done, 
Down  in  a  bankrupt  darkness  deep  I  lie 
Haunted  by  all  I  lost — and  might  have  won  ! 

3ET  was  there  aught  to  win  that  is  not 
mine  ? 
I  ask  not  money — only  to  buy  wine : 

Women  forsake  me  not,  for  all  my  sins — 
What  better  winnings,  pious  friend,  are  thine  ? 


MAM  not  fit  for  hell, — I  am  too  small; 
For  heaven  I  am  too  heretical; 
I  love  both  places,  yet  not  one  enough : 
'Twixt  the  two  stools  I  fall — and  fall — and  fall. 

^OD  gave  me  eyesight — shall  I  rob  my 
eyes? 
He  gave  me  smell — instead  of  merchandise — 

Members  and  senses  delicate  to  feed ; 
Who  bids  me  starve  them  God  himself  denies. 

|EA !  none  shall  tell  that  I  have  turned 
away. 
Ungrateful,  when  some  woman  bid  me  stay : 

The  golden  invitation  of  a  friend 
I  answered  ever  with  a  thankful  '*yea. 


>> 


IHINK  not  that  I  have  never  tried  your 
way 
To  heaven,  you  who  pray  and  fast  and  pray. 

Once  I  denied  myself  both  love  and  wine. 
Yea  wine  and  love — for  a  whole  summer  day. 

CANNOT  help   it.     Were  it  in  my 
power, 
I  would  forsake  my  sins  this  very  hour. 

Forswear   the    Rose,    and   bid  the  Vine 
goodbye. 
Kiss  my  last  kiss — if  it  were  in  my  powerl 


^m  GOOD  old  friends— what  is  it  I  have 

M  saidl 

It  was  the  wine  which  got  into  my  head — 

Forgive  me,  O  forgive,  I  meant  it  not, 
I  shall  forsake  you  only  when  Tm  dead. 


ND   even   then — who  knows — we'll 
meet  again. 
Nor  the  celestial  wine-cup  cease  to  drain. 

And  in  some  laughter-loving  heaven  on 
high 
Our  little  women  to  our  bosoms  strain. 

{HEN  to  this  loot  of  life  I  come  anear. 
Hoping  to  snatch  some  little  worldly 
gear, 
I  find  the  fools  have  carted  off  the  best. 
And  nought  is  left  for  me,  but — hope  and  fear. 


^j^F  thou  wilt  keep  my  head  well  filled 
^^)  with  wine, 

I  care  not  if  the  whole  round  world  be  thine; 
O  fading  kingdoms  and  forgotten  kings, 
I  know  a  better  kingdom — drink  red  wine. 


fITHIN   the   tavern   each   man   is  a 
king. 

Wine  is  the  slave  that  brings  him — anything; 
O  friend,  be  wise  in  time  and  Join  our  band. 
Drink  and  forget  and  laugh  and  dance  and  sing. 

WONDER  why  I  go  on  living  still 
This  life  of  pain  and  poison,  why  I  still 
Trust  friends,  hope  good,  still  fight  and 
still  have  faith 
In  this  world's  business — ^still,  think  of  it, — 
stilll 

GAVE  my  heart,  and  life  returns  me — 
nought; 

My  mind,  my  soul,  I  gave — for  what?     For 
nought ; 
All  dreams  and  loves  and  hopes  I  freely  gave; 
Nothing  is  left  to  give.     I  give  it :     Nought. 


OU  say:     ''There  are  so  many  crowns 
to  win. 
Yet  you  lie  sunken  in  your  sleepy  sin  1  '^ 

Bring  me  a  crown  of  gold  and  big  enough. 
And  I  will  wear  it — all  these  are  of  tin. 


I 


^HETHER   you   would  abide  or  go 
away. 

Wine  will  befriend  you,  friend :  for,  if  you  stay. 
You'll  forget  going;  and,  if  you  must  go. 
He  '11  drown  you  in  the  very  sweetest  way. 

JOME  that  would   leave   this   world 

take  dreadful  means. 

One  wrenching  poisons,  one  steel,  another  leans 

His  brow  on  sudden  fire,  but   wine  is 

best — 

Poets  have  died  so,  and  many  kings,  and  queens. 


[INE  is  the  tender  friend  of  suicides. 
You  drown  so  softly  in  its  gentle  tides: 
You  know  not  you  are  dying,  yet  you  die. 
And  love  with  rose-leaves  all  the  ruin  hides. 

^OULD  you  forget  a  woman — drink 
red  wine: 

Would  you  remember  her.  then  drink  red  wine: 
Is  your  heart  breaking  just  to  see  her  face? 
Gaze  deep  within  this  mirror — of  red  wine. 

JACE  like  a  glass  wherein   all  heaven 
lies, 
A  jErmament  reflecJted  in  two  eyes: 

Thanks  to  your  heaven,  I  am  deep  in  hell. 
The  shadow  of  your  laughter  is  my  sighs. 


^^Y  cheeks,  like  hollow  cups,  are  filled 

^1^  with  tears. 

My  body  is  a  haunted  house  of  fears. 

My  heart  is  like  a  wine-jar  filled  with  blood: 
O  God !  those  sightless  eyes,  those  small  deaf 
cars. 

SHEIK    once  took  a  harlot  in  her 
shame. 
Calling  the  poor  soul  many  an  ugly  name; 

'*  Tis  true, ''  she  wept,  *'  all  I  appear  I  am; 
But,  sheik,  of  thee  would  I  could  say  the  samel '' 


^^^  SPEAK    not   evil  of   these    dancing 
i^^  flowers. 


These  girls  that  arrogantly  we  call  ours, — 
Yours,  mine,  and  anyone's  who  bids  and 
buys — 
O  God !  the  pity  of  the  fate  of  flowers  1 


rtRL,  have  you  any  thought  what  your 
eyes  mean? 
You  must  have  stolen  them  from  some  dead  queen; 

O  little  empty  laughing  soul  that  sings 
And  dances — tell  me  what  do  your  eyes  mean  1 

ND    all    this    body    of    ivory    and 
myrrh, 

O  guard  it  with  some  little  love  and  care — 
Know  your  own  wonder,  worship  it  with 
me. 
See  how  I  fall  before  it  deep  in  prayer. 

OW   sad   to   be    a   woman, — not    to 
know 
Aught  of  the  glory  of  this  breast  of  snow. 

All  unconcerned  to  comb  this  mighty  hair ; 
To  be  a  woman — and  yet  never  know  I 


[ERE    I    a  woman,    I   wouli  all  day 
long 
Sing  my  own  beauty  in  some  holy  song. 

Bend  low  before  it,  hushed  and  half  afraid. 
And  say  ''I  am  a  woman''  all  day  long. 


^^^    LOVE,  I  come  to   worship  in  your 


shrine. 
There  is  no  part  of  you  is  not  divine. 

There  is  no  part  of  you  not  human  too. 


There  is  no  part  of  you  that  is  not  mine; 

|XCEPT — except — that  heart  of  precious 
stone. 
Cold  heart  no  man  shall  ever  call  his  own. 

Nor  fire  warm,  nor  might  of  loving  win. 
Heart  great — and  cold— enough  to  dwell  alone. 


L 


i 


HOUGH   my   estate    be    poor,    my 
raiment  torn, 
I  am  not  really  sorry  I  was  born. 

For  God  has  given  me  my  heart's  desire — 
Wine  and  the  Well-Beloved  and  the  morn. 


^AD  pilgrim  of  the  heart,  the  way  is 
long. 
Suppose  we  lighten  it  for  you  with  a  song; 

Here  in  the  tavern  rest  your  wandering  feet. 
Strong  is  your  love,  but  wine  is  just  as  strong. 


kE  know  the  love  that  drives  you  to 
and  fro. 
Like  hungry  dogs  that  through  the  city  go. 

The  hollow  hunger  of  the  breaking  heart. 
And  the  one  cure  for  it,  alike  we  know. 


AKI,   bring  roses  for  this  sad  one's 
^&1  hair. 


And  set  a  bowl  of  rubies  for  him  there ; 

And  you,  O  moon,    dance,    dance    and 
dance  and  dance — 
That  the  poor  fellow  may  not  think  of  her. 

IFE  is  too  short,  dear  brother,  to  be 
sad; 
If  you  must  needs  be  anything — be  glad ; 

Leave  bitter  books  and  read  the  Book  of 
Joy— 
I  know  that  some  declare  the  book  is  bad. 


yg^  O  all  of  us  the  thought  of  heaven  is 

Why  not  be  sure  of  it,  and  make  it  here ! 

No  doubt  there  is  a  heaven  yonder  too. 
But  'tis  so  far  away,  and — you  are  near. 


BOOK,  a  Woman,  and  a  Flask  of 
Wine, 

The  three  make  heaven — for  me;  it  may  be  thine 
Is  some  sour  place  of  singing  cold  and  bare — 
But  then  I  never  said  thy  heaven  was  mine. 

jOVE,  the  fair  day  is  drawing  to  its 
close. 

The  stars  are  rising  and  a  soft  wind  blows. 
The   gates   of  heaven  are  opening  in  a 
dream. 
The  nightingale  sings  to  the  sleeping  rose. 

IHADOWS  and  dew  and  silence  and 
the  stars; 
I  wonder,  love,  what  is  behind  those  bars 

Of  twinkling    silver, — is    there    aught 
behind  ? — 
Venus  and  Jupiter,  Sirius  and  Mars; 


LDEBARAN,  and  the  soft  Pleiades, 
Orion  ploughing  the  ethereal  seas — 
Which  are  the  stars,  my  love,  and  which 
your  eyes? 
And  O  the  nightingale  in  yonder  trees ! 

jEART  of  my  heart,  in  such  an  hour  as 
this 
The  cup  of  life  brims  all  too  full  of  bliss. 

See,  it  runs  over  in  these  happy  tears — 
How  strange  you  seem !  how  solemn  is  your  kissl 

LOVE,  if  I  should  die  before  you 
died. 
Would  you  be  really  sorry  that  I  died? 

And  would  you  weep  a  whole  week  on 
my  tomb. 
Then  be  a  little  happy — that  I  died? 


ND  would  you  see    some   face   that 
looked  like  mine. 
And  love  it,  love — "because  it  looked    like 
mine   I 
And  say:  *'How  strangely  like  Khayyam 
you  areT' 
And  kiss  the  face — so  wondrously  like  mine ! 


m 


HEN    would    you   bring  him   softly 
where  the  rose  ^ 
Showers  its  petals  upon  my  repose. 

And  shed  two  tears  together  on  my  tomb, — 
Strange  are  the  ways  of  grief — who  knows, 
who  knows  I 


Here  end  the  rubaiyatof  Omar  Khayyam  of 
Naishapur  newly  done  into  English  verse  by 
Richard  LeGallienne,  made  into  this  book  by 
Helen  Bruneau  VanVechten  at  The  Philosopher 
Press  which  is  in  Wausau  Wisconsin  at  The 
Sign  of  The  Green  Pine  Tree,  finished  this 
second  day  of  March  MCMI. 

Made  for   Mr.    James  Carleton  Young, 
Minneapolis  Minnesota. 


L37 


ilUBAIYAT    OF    OMAR    KHAYYAM 


